A light flicked through living residue of hope,
beauty and a sense of being alive
The many questions I was asked left a void and saw the messenger depart forever,
with matter which will grow were void belongs
I embraced yet another shadow in hope, when I opened my eyes, neither the shadow nor the light were with me.
I am too good to be good, and too bad I’m not bad
I am too smart to be dumb and too stupid to be them
I work for freedom when I have to quit for it to be
I am, and I wish to cease to be; yet I would (kill) to be
I inherited the earth, yet I pay for a dump every month
I quit school so I can learn, and lie to get the truth
To reach high I lay very low, and when I’m low, I’m low
I hate to love; it’s not your fault
One day, at night, I will not be, I will surrender my humble victories.
Kindly yours, Pain.
I’m honest I’m not Snooze
A tool is it? A flavor? Zzzt stop… I can hear you now
Is too much too much? The fridge, the pillow of my ears,
Where is it now? when noises wake, please sooth me.
Sorrow and tears for it, better wear a mask… You are what you are, never mind the light
Thin of the thinnest is freedom.
Billions and more are born!
Loosing nature, gaining space.
The thrill of boxes, the scent of walls.
From a long primitive paradise,
to empty conversations, poverty, prisons.
The greed that jams the passage,
The consistency that we are.
One by one I thought,
Many at once they become,
Oh so many so!
It was either mind or fun back then,
I now think I chose correctly!
Since an instant has just past,
It is done! Now I can rest!
Time and space are relative, therefore, as I see people passing by, I measure them in relation to a universe that exists, to some degree as its very own, then I see this fat guy, its belly button containing or not a black hole, where hundreds of thousands or somewhere something immensely huge contains immeasurable amounts of laundry lint and stinking human goo passing a narrowest vacuum that uses solar systems like ours for toothpicks!, Awesome!…
The shadow from the trees were like ant’s mandibles feasting away on green patches of grass,
Then they would stop, and talk, just a few, real fast, then more, and like the neck of a bull it would fan slowly sideways, in slow anger.
Then, the cold wind has set the charge, and the grass below has finally felt the chewing from above.
Sunflower that waved
At me, beauty that is, then dies,
for the lack of customers, the need
we brought, the garbage it will become
The effect of roses.
Much more to the colors that skin the subtle petals, the eyes loosing sight, surrendering to the invitation that deforms perspective into a sensuous gas, eager to defeat the porous body walls, to swim the stream closer, to corner time and allow desire to manipulate a weak entity that yearns for the dormant heat to be aroused. The provocation strengthens evenly as the ideal mate disintegrates in a sensual imagery that just fits. Its all in a communication game that lacks impatience, but denotes urgency of discharge of secretions that mimic the explosive scent, reaching out for purpose and indulgence of exchange, disregarding boundaries and boundaries dissolving into pleasure, a well expected trap that is seen dressed in fine shape, and blinding intentions.
Brought in faith, accepted in surrender, the glory stands held.
The business of misery.
If in the weakness is the power, the truth must sound empty, yet beautiful, for to this nature the victim yields, and suffers. Forecasting with the truth gathered, perhaps for moments of truth to feel as itself, -then as itself-. The emotions made from jumping from positive to negative emotions, or the lack of them. What hunger?, what satisfaction?, how much of it?. Still, as indifference hardens, the harder it gets to explain.
The more you will doubt your truth.
Lazy mother.
Either pushing, pulling, building or tearing apart, the call of the blind world ignores she, who at the park, stairs in awe of love to a weight in her arms that will soon become my boss. These young fragile beings to become machines, wearing out their passions and dreams as new realities set, the inheritance of traditional pains and lies. A war that begins with -I'm pregnant- against -I'm alive-, I should go around respecting what is jammed into this more than obvious chaos, while a gap of glory is given in hope to she, who is chained to circumstances. A name that bears no ill, mother is king, its ruling, sane or not, with that smile or agony. With that person that owes in thought and truth: hope, help, listen. The better the child, the better the truth.
Exposed.
Spewed by its flowery frames, distant gardens brake their solitude, as their dust and the country of their roots becomes the breathing vapors, the parts that must be had.
Away from them I must be, an exit door must be found. An instant friend I must see, a certain thought I should feel. Let the flow of us help, a gallery of you see that as one, you are many. Your indifference will be stolen by the beauty before you, and your faith drawn by your own interpretations.
Art Morphosis.
Dew in the morning, then fog, then clouds, then me. The story told in view, a message from the moment that was able to scream, printed in a song we have heard. A slide we can't forget, not for how steep but for the thrill. So we mutter what we see, and its meaning bends, the colours now out, and here and there I am. My in is out. Now the wind will ask of what I mean, as it shall pollinate my being while expressions will attract...
A white field will perish.
Me.
A dreamer, as one, I drift around wonders. Though the whisper of reason wakes and overtakes without me knowing. I dared to see what my hands could tell, I nourished challenges, screams from the paper were heard.
Truth is, the best inspiration for me is, sometimes forces dialogues of other truths.
They detail the shapes so much, that the work its -self-. A relief and pain exchange between the need to be heard and the silence I want to achieve.
Freedom and respect come with a great toll. When so many have died lacking their cause. We honor their sacrifice. We gather their dreams.
It seems that everyone no longer knows who's whisper that is..., why anyone. other than reason demands. Still, a bridge exists, where common ground meets. Here is where art translates. A compromise between a communicator and its audience, a second or third person to count on. Art is indifferent to complexity, but not to meaning (or the lack of it). Art is needed, even before we die, or after we live. I have witnessed my self, coming to my galleries, I bought too many -thing-, I barely ever sold anything. Still, it will never be closed, so it will always be open, for the artist in me. is my reason...
A call for the effervescence of happiness has taken place. and the curiosity of the sun is there too, for this form is to shine and shy around a planet so lively and colored, that a smile must be one of the main constant to lit shapes , given to this round, dizzy curious friend.
The cold physics have gathered with all attention to a task requiring beauty, grace, joy, feminine warmth, masculine resistance, and an infant face. The factory of the unconscious -be- the birthplace of it, the material of dreams its heart...
Ceremonial dance is performed by the geometry of dust and flight.
Directions are given by the observer who embraces the greatness of harmony.
Supervision belongs to awe and its eternal perfection, distantly conceiving a creation to carry on its inheritance and continuity.
Still a fetus, its structure flowing with life, the cells in delight knowing home is to become a marvel, and them, its body.
This very feast is to progress, this celebrated offspring is to be and then witness magic that neighbors in its infinite playground, far from being distant and lonely next to infatuated lovers which will touch its skin and return to yet wonder how to forever breathe the scent of a dreamland called moon.
Nothing more then closing your eyes, lacking of a witness of that which lies around, the surprise of a moment, means the present tied to a past filled with significance and wonder....
There obvious to a peaceful moment, a circle of clear light surrenders to those who nourish upon its bright transparency, as the motion of a boat sets the thoughts of our thought into endless possibilities, a lace, keeps the ground not too far from a road of meaning with a solid hold, as the liquid of birth is medium to elder creatures, hopeful messages, and together with the wind and heat, a distributor of a cyclone of recycled love.
For the ground, the absorption and endurance of seasons yields to the fruits of continuity and longevity, it lays restful to form a path and hold for those who wonder. Opened eyes witness from under; accessible steps can lead you to them as they experience the effects of time.
Together for the above and beneath, forming a firm horizon, floating above with purity. Peace flagged the hopeful known sentiments that have ready roots for those with fertile soil. The approaching gentle forms have their remoras, symbols of joy and dependence, waiting to be embraced by life and understanding, desire to be interpreted as their nature.
So, as we direct our changing cloud, our advancement allows others to visit us, but it is our childish wisdom and good nature which will serve as transport to make time, peace, understanding, worth light in the wind, and easy to be carried by travelers of endless seasons and tranquil intentions.
From the green pause to the evaporation of healthy colors into white powdered water, it exists a chance to adapt our present towards the innate capacity of understanding and compromising, with balance, and with our capacity to make sense.